HD 'Clinical Trials Case VLA101A' Epilogue
by tigersilver
Summary: The first of hopefully two epilogues to 'The Clinical Trials and Tribulations' tale, posted earlier. Might stand alone; might not. PWP. And /other/.


**Clinical VLA-101 A**

_It was the sensation of being very, very full_, Harry thought. Mused, rather, for his head was muzzy. His _everything_ was soft and blurred, tingly and alive and Malfoy was in and out and all about him.

Like every morning, recently. Every moment they had not already committed to their jobs or their lives (appointments, meet-ups with friends, interactions with people, people, _people_—and Harry at times wished all the bloody extraneous people would go hang)—the parts of _Malfoy_ and _Potter_ that were public for consumption.

But this. This was for Harry. This was Malfoy's domain. And it was magical.

"Alright?" Breathed in his ear, a whispery rumble. A bared chest shifted against Harry's spine. They were spooned, Harry's head resting on Malfoy's bicep (ripply, yes; warm and solid, also yes), the whole of him tucked like a stuck-on plaster firmly against the length of warm man behind him. "Mmm, Potter?"

"Alright," Harry mumbled and wriggled his bum backwards to prove it; his well-used hips sensitive to fabric so soft and smooth it was likely sewn of fairy-spun silk. "Um…Little more wouldn't be so…bad, you know?"

"Mmm," the rumble was very pleased. "Alright, Potter. One to go on with, mmmh?"

One sharp initial thrust and the half-wilted cock that hadn't quite left him even in sleep was plunging-sliding-pulsing within again, reviving as it went. The tingle within Harry increased exponentially; Harry's heart rate surged along with it.

Magic. No one—not Poppy, not Madame D'Argent—had ever mentioned this!

He didn't know; maybe all Wizarding folk felt this way during sex? Certainly he'd had his little thrills when he'd been poking Ginny (the remembrance of the girl was very fond; the flesh-memory of the act wasn't, decidedly, upon further consideration). And he'd felt pretty damned super when that Paul bloke had sucked him off, or Simon—or (once, on a double-drunk dare) Charlie. But vanilla…yes, okay, but all that had been fairly bland. Not even vanilla but more like…tofu. Plain, from the packet. Fresh, tasty enough, but…lacking something; a certain zing.

Malfoy gave Harry 'zing'. No, Malfoy surrounded Harry with 'zing'. Overwhelmed him inside and out and fucking, sodding, blimey bathed him in 'zing'—it was fantastic.

Had to be Magic, with a capital 'M'. Nothing else for it.

Long smooth prick. A good girth, it stretched Harry's lips to an 'O' when he swallowed it. Sucked it, and yes—lollies. Just like. Fleshly hot lolly, to be teased into salty searing floppiness: a blunt instrument of Malfoy's passion. But hotter than blazes and juicy as a plump fruit—not lolly-like, that. A living shaft of velvety-smooth mouthful, infinitely satisfying upon his taste buds. Bucking against his gullet as he strove to keep Malfoy's face in sight, peeping up. So he could watch avidly as Malfoy's jaw slackened and his onyx pupils—narrow as a cat's-eye when gone Veela—blew wide and dark as the heart of a sunflower in that blaze of molten grey lens. Sometimes his so-composed Malfoy would even drool during it; Harry counted those moments as particularly successful.

But not every swallow was dedicated to the happy result of giving him cotton-mouth from the saline load nor a pleasantly achy sore throat after. Some were to inspire; no—most. Not that Malfoy needed encouragement.

A word, a groan, a look, the merest twitch of brow or lip. Malfoy needed no encouragement, no. He got the job done. Stirring Harry up, shaking him to particles and pieces—as this moment—this moment—was made of.

The feeling was exquisite (_oh, yeah_, Harry wondered vaguely, scrambling about, _what was it I thinking just now?)_ And then he was gasping fitfully as Malfoy rolled over top him, forcing wide his buttocks, splaying his hips. Squashing his sleep-creased cheek into pillows when he was filled. When that prick, so pumped up with essence of Malfoy, was screwed into the very fastnesses of his most private bits—his arse. His arse bloody well loved it. Would feel funny—wobbly and empty and sad—when they weren't shagging.

And his bollocks, shoved this way and that with random see-saw motions; his thighs (tremulous like a boiled pudding, okay—or p'raps a trifle); his gut bubbling madly away as the singular sensation percolated straight up the centre core of him—oh, Merlin! Oh, magic!

He was infused when they shagged—a pot of tea, slowly darkening, enriching by degrees with taste and tannins—with Malfoy. Spectacular, was what it was.

"Ready for more?" Malfoy's roughened silk ribbon of a voice slithering into Harry's ear, caused all his fur on his arms and nape to rise; the slip-slide of rapidly dampening super-heated skin (Malfoy got hot as blazes when he was fucking, like a human inferno) against his own instantly flattening all the follicles back into submission again. The chills-fever-ague of it was addictive; Harry never wanted to stop. "Because. Want you…want _you_."

'_Want you_.'

Oh, _please_. When didn't Malfoy want him?

"Please…" Harry humped his legs apart as best as he was able, being sort of sideways laying and mostly skewered; Malfoy's sprawled weight was crushing him. He loved that part, too. Helpless and immobile and yet the master of all the world that mattered withal—the conduit of one very special man's pleasure. "Oh—please!"

A slobbery pant in his ear—a sob of raw hunger—and Malfoy rose up upon his knees at Harry's back, shifting them both again into a position with much more promise; grabbing and carrying Harry's willing hips with him as he lifted, wings beating in the confines of the bed clothes. Claws bit in, gentle as pinpricks but with the pads of fingertips behind them bruisingly hard. Harry slid easy-peasy into a ready diver's fold, an unlatched switchknife at the ready, his bum waggling in the chill air above the heaped quilts and opened under Malfoy's jerky eager thrusts like the heart of a primrose to a honeybee.

He closed his eyes at the onset of the real business of their mornings. There was no worthy comparison—not even tea. Nothing came close to touching this feeling.

"Want you," Malfoy repeated, dark and heady, and Harry glowed. "Want…you!"

He _knew_, damn it—he could feel Malfoy's want in every quivering fibre; knew precisely just how much it was he was _wanted_. Desired, devoured—obtained. Magic, it seemed, was an element of pure possession. He was more Malfoy's at this moment than at nearly any other time and was simultaneously both an object of lust and a treasure. "_Have_ you." Malfoy's low growl was tender, so tender.

Above all, he was Harry. Harry.

"Have…you."

"Mmm…unrrgh!"

"Have—you!"

Enchantment settled, like a golden web over all of it happening all at once to them both, from the intent dip of Malfoy's bowed head and twist of his grimly ferocious expression (he was so _serious_ when they fucked, till that moment when at last he came inside Harry—and then his whole deliciously perfect person was bathed in divine sublimity, from wingtip to wingtip, from shining crown of fair hair to curling pinky toe), and across and down in the depths of comforter, to Harry's sly-stupid-with lust-but-still-merry-exultant lip twitches and lewd grimaces. Why, oh why, did sex sometimes cause him to feel like laughing?

Ridiculous! Harry chuckled, shivering with it. Malfoy 'tsk'd', gripping his waist a little more fiercely.

But it was ever so lovely a form of hilarity, this.

"Oh!"

And it was worthy of an 'Oh!'…_and_ the little numerous subsonic 'Ahhh!'s that tripped from Harry's lips after; the groans and moans and inarticulate sounds Harry couldn't help but issue in reaction. He whimpered; loved the whimper. Such a feeling! Unreal—marvellous—infinitely soul-stirring.

"Mmmmph!"

"Potter! Po—!"

Malfoy gulped, swallowing air with a funny little nasal whistle; Harry heard him do it. Grinned again—he adored all his mornings…when they were like this one. They were all like this one—he could rely on it. Did.

"Potter! So-fucking-hot-so-hot-so-tight—" and here it began, Malfoy's verbal paean of Potter-praise. Over and under and through it flowed, a river of dirtied sweet honey: "—want you—want you—_now_, you wriggly little git! Want you always, Potter—always and always!"

So…tense. So clipped, as if each syllable were wrung out, ripped out, with Malfoy clinging to them to prevent them from showing themselves.

"Fuck—get closer, Potter…urrrh!"

As if Harry infuriated Malfoy simply by being _his_. Well. That was about spot-on.

Harry grinned foolishly to himself and to the pillow his grin was buried in. Poor fuck. Pathetic Malfoy. Lost all his cool demeanour when he was shagging, didn't he? No more than any man, then. Harry's man.

"Come up, Potter—fuck you—so—much—_mine_—"

Harry gasped, silently. Was putty to be moulded. Malfoy moulded, snarling good things. Silly things—nonsensical. He was a beast in heat—Malfoy.

But all Wizard—and one bang-up cartload of Veela. Feathers brushed at Harry's ribs; tickled him into nearly a fit of inappropriate giggles—made his skin vibrate in tune and the tendons and muscles beneath coil and gather.

"Uh!" he grunted, for it was superb, that. Warmth, softness, and the core of steel under down. Sizzled him to wisps, smoking. "Unnngh! M'foy!" he slurred.

"Have you," Malfoy crowed quietly, rearing up high on withdrawal and shaking the poor bed frame as he swooped in again. Drilled down, in-in-in! (To himself, he boasted. To Harry, to the world? Who knew?) "Oh, I _do_ have you. Mine, Potter—you're all mine."

_No argument there_, or so Harry could've told him. _Prat_. Ah, yes. Decidedly, he was Malfoy's.

"Always mine, ever mine—feel me in you, Potter?" A rough hand dragged Harry's chin up, lips covered his parted ones with morning-breath saliva, and behind that sharp white teeth nipping. "Say you are, say it! Potter!"

"Um—ahh!"

Oh, he would've if he could've, no mistake—but Malfoy would have to be content with Harry's slitted eyes slanting shut and open again, his lashes tangled, his dazzled-blind gaze into heat-washed nothingness. His strenuous attempts (shift, wiggle, shove, screw!) to take yet more of that gorgeous Malfoy cock, deeper in. The speaking slouch of his back as he sagged, panting roughly, and the strained taut skin stretched across his flanks and calves as he pushed up even whilst continually falling. His shoulders tight as rappelling ropes, his neck bowed in mute submission.

One hard arm wrapped 'round his waist was what kept him steady, the hand of which played with Harry's cock.

God, yes—his cock! _Harry's_.

No. No way. Uh-uh. This couldn't be normal. Harry shook his head at it, sweaty tendrils lank in his eyes. No, not this. Not the way Malfoy meshed into him seamlessly, so that Harry was as much Veela at the moment as his beloved git. Inseparable halves of a whole.

He'd not known; never known. Never could've imagined nor expected.

There was nothing 'as expected' to this—not at all. Even Voldemort had never twined his foul thoughts—his consciousness nor his splintered soul—so deep into Harry. Only Malfoy had ever managed that—and Harry wanted it. Welcomed it, with open arms and directly contrary to every other instance of his life when some damned alien force had tried to overtake him.

They—Voldemort, Snape, those random enemy Legilmens he'd encountered as an Auror—they could all go pound sand and sod off; Harry only wanted Malfoy.

And that _other_.

He wanted that, too—craved it, rather. That particle of _other_ that floated about his belly, every day a little more of a presence, every day a larger part of Harry's waking thoughts. The cause of Malfoy's peculiar new species of smirk: the _other_.

'Other'. Might as well name it for what it was, but Harry wasn't going there.

Not yet, not just yet. The world was large enough with just the two of them. For now.

…For now.

_His_ world was actually quite topsy-turvy (from his perspective of forehead buried into pillow and eyeing cock-eyed between his own thighs the sight of Malfoy's hand rubbing his eager dick to a quick release; yes—yes, it was, in truth, whacked out and skewed, his world) and he_ liked_ it that way. Fucking well liked it that way—preferred it. Liked seeing pale legs behind his knees, pressing almost painfully; loved the possessive curl to that wrist as it jogged him. The heat of him; the scent of him—those swoopy great wings furled about them both as they came apart at the seams—in a hurry.

So much to like about it. No words to describe it, either. No one who wasn't Potter or Malfoy could ever understand.

"Potter!" So demanding, Harry's Malfoy. "_Potter-Potter-Potter_!"

"Now, Potter!"

With a twisty sleight of hand (nimble fingers, prickly talons, knuckled fast) and a rapid-thrust-buck, they were coming. Coming in droves;heaps and buckets. Striping the sheets and the interior of Harry's clenching, fluttering, slop-sucking arsehole. Glorious.

"_Mer__**-lin**_!"

"—ngh!—"

Harry hadn't managed a coherent word; he'd not said it, not once, what Malfoy wanted him to, but no matter. No matter.

He was here and every particle of Malfoy was blending into every atom of Harry and it was all so very fine; so bloody, ruddy, super-fantastic there were no words for it. Mingling, mixing in, buttressing life—new life, different life: _other_.

Lying on his semi-squashed cheek after (which Harry knew was likely completely scarlet and certainly smeared with a sticky combo of his and Malfoy's saliva), his back near to breaking under the limp ten stone blanket that was Malfoy's satisfied person, Harry considered.

_Maybe tomorrow_. He might…just might…say something tomorrow. It was getting close; he'd not be able to be fucked silly face-down for very much longer. And it wasn't that Malfoy didn't realize it either, the percipient fuck. He'd a hand (the same as had fiddled Harry's cock into spurting submission just a few moments previously) splayed carefully across Harry's abdomen. Petting it, he was, the freakish git. Stroking softly, each fingertip trailing a feather of the memory of fires, banked. The sweet, sappy, fond creature who was half-responsible for Harry's _other_.

Harry snickered. Bared his teeth, though Malfoy didn't catch it.

…There was going to be a great sodding to-do in the Ministry—_and_ the Burrow—and likely down the offices of the _Prophet_ and _Quibbler_ as well. Absolutely _Witch Weekly_ and then there were the Mesdames Healers Pomfrey and D'Argent yet to deal with. The Minister! Oh—Kingsley's face! And Ron—hah! Ron!

_Hermione_!

Should be a fuss and fidget and all of gigantic proportions!

Oh, yes. Fuss and botheration, too. Pain…likely pain. That would drive Malfoy barking.

But…the _other_, at the end of it. That would be brilliant. And Malfoy. Malfoy's_ face_.

"Hum." Harry smiled, secretively. "Nhnnn…" His pillow creased with it, wrinkling comfortably.

"Hmmm?" Malfoy shifted at his back, drawing Harry up a little and freeing h**i**m from the wrestling hold he'd been landed in quite by circumstance. "Potter?"

"Just…thinking," Harry shrugged, slurring as he licked his lips. "Was good, juss'now." They were dry, chapped; he wanted his tea now. When he could move again, that was—or when Malfoy did, knowing as he did Harry craved his morning cuppa. "Was good, M'l'foy. Mmm."

There was a tiny silence; the fingers at his waist and below flexed, gently, gently. He felt a curving set of lips against his neck just below his earlobe. Malfoy _knew_, the sod. Of course he knew—he was Veela. _Bloody_…!

"…_Always_."

Grinning git. Harry could hear it. And Malfoy was a git, yes. Likely planning already on how it was he could induce Harry to speak of the _other _before _he_ must. Wanted Harry to tell him, likely. Bald-faced and—no. Just like him to be that way, the highhanded twat. Every little thing his way.

But Harry wasn't about to. Not this morning, not today…but maybe. Maybe…tomorrow.

…Maybe.

Finite.


End file.
